


A Wyrm's Tale

by BlazingChes



Series: cleave to darkness [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: A lot of it towards the end holy shit, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Bilbo Baggins, Bilbo just wants some Old Toby, But Thorin is also tired of Gandalf's MEDDLING, Butchered Black Speech is my jam, Canon-Typical Violence, Dragon Bilbo Baggins, Gandalf is tired of Thorin's SHIT, Gen, Grumpy Bilbo, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, It starts out good and then hurts a lot before it gets better again, Kinda but not really, M/M, More Characters Will Be Added As We Go Along, Much Ado About Magic, POV Multiple, Sassy Bilbo, Shapeshifter Bilbo Baggins, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2019-03-16 17:57:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13641495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlazingChes/pseuds/BlazingChes
Summary: If there were anybody other than a hobbit, anything other than a hobbit, who could be of any use to steal from a dragon such as Smaug the Golden? Who would dare to steal from a dragon who decimated the city of Dale and chased away the dwarven people in droves with flames of destruction billowing out of his gaping maw?It would, certainly, be another dragon.(In which Bilbo Baggins is just a dragon trying to get by, and yet gets saddled with making sure these dwarven fools don't get themselves killed, finding a way to steal the Arkenstone without waking up his kin, Smaug, and thus sending the people of Middle Earth into an even earlier panic, and the task of trying to stay sane so he can return to Bag End safe and sound.Oh, and of course hide the fact that he's a dragon from one dragon-hating Thorin Oakenshield and his company. That doesn't sound like it would end well, does it?)





	A Wyrm's Tale

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there! This is my first dip into the Hobbit/LOTR fandom, so hopefully I don't step on any toes _too much,_ and hopefully I don't butcher the characters too badly throughout this process. Also hope you guys aren't too tired of Dragon!Bilbo fics yet, because I find them really fascinating and there's just so many fun ways to mess with that idea, and not just in The Hobbit.
> 
> Just a heads up that this will be updated once weekly, likely try for every Saturday or Sunday though it may end up earlier in the week depending on muse, and that this will definitely lead into heavy canon divergence later on in the story. This will also have multiple POV's strewn throughout it.
> 
> Hope you guys enjoy!

Bilbo Baggins was a peculiar hobbit of the Shire, but well-liked regardless. He had good manners, a good appetite, and a good eye for pipeweed, all a necessity of being a decent gentlehobbit, let alone a normal one. He was a wonderful host, even to the Sackville-Baggins, who were most definitely not who he would define as the most appealing or most welcome of guests. He never was one for violence, in fact seemed perfectly capable of talking around it through one way or another, and knew perfectly how to talk mischievous hobbit children away from getting into trouble, if at least for a little while. There were other traits, however, such as he would not even look upon gold, that the hobbits of the Shire simply deemed peculiarities, surely inherited from his less than proper Tookish lineage. (A less spoken about, but often ignored regardless, fact was that the older hobbits could never remember how old he was, or exactly who his parents were. Belladonna Took had a child, yes, but Bilbo had been around long before that.)

Despite this, a certain wizard, just as peculiar in the Shire’s opinion and even more wonderful thanks to his special fireworks that awed whoever looked upon them, seemed to inspire the exact opposite, tearing apart good etiquette and manners with a mere sentence. Though that wasn’t to say Bilbo Baggins certainly didn’t try to retain politeness. It was simply that he often, irrevocably, failed.

Said hobbit sat in front of his beloved garden, one he had cultivated for several decades, if not more, embracing the faint breeze that gently rattled leaves and guided the smoke away. His eyes were closed, his posture seemingly relaxed in that he leaned far back into the bench’s backrest, head laying on its mantle and nose facing the air. The only things that weren’t slack was the hand keeping the pipe perpendicular and steady so that none of the ignited pipeweed would fall and the mouth working at it every so often, releasing smoke that flowed constantly.

It was impossible to miss the scent of magic in the air, just as soothing as it was unpleasant, a sting that automatically, or rather instinctually, made his spine stiffen almost imperceptibly even if he knew its source quite well. The footsteps were even more pronounced, heard as the climbed the slow and steady hill at the edge of the Shire and up towards Bag End, occasionally stuttering when the source undoubtedly paused to greet another hobbit or swat away a child’s hand from whatever he carried with him. And still the peculiar hobbit did not move from his perch, did not retreat into his hobbit hole. He merely waited there, even as he could hear the faint hums approaching ever closer, as well as the creak of a staff, and smell the puff of a pipe, just like Bilbo’s. Finally, the source reached him, and it paused for more than a minute, wisely waiting to be addressed with patience.

“Good morning Gandalf,” Bilbo breathed wearily, exhaling an amount of smoke much heavier than the steady stream he’d been releasing for the past half hour. He didn’t need to open his eyes to see a kind expression, or the twinkle in grey-blue eyes that _always_ led to mischief, but he did regardless, for manners mattered, and was rewarded with a gentle smile, which pleased the peculiar hobbit. He eyed the wizard, even as somewhere his thoughts were leading into something darker, suggestions that he learned to generally ignore when it came to Gandalf the Grey, and searched for any visible wounds. He doubted that the wizard wouldn’t conceal such things, but it eased the irrational part of his mind nonetheless. Despite his apparent exhaustion towards the wizard, and the surging discomfort towards the magical aura that the wizard always seemed to radiate nowadays, he was in fact pleased to see Gandalf, for all that he meddled. Gandalf was a true friend, after all, and Bilbo quite frankly didn’t have much of those left anymore. Not in the state he was in, anyway. “What are you here to trouble me with today?”

The wizard, for his part, took the studying eyes in stride, and easily spun his own words into the air. “Do you mean it is a good morning, or that you wish me a good morning, or perhaps simply you mean to say hello?” He said, words mirthful as he sat down next to the would-be peculiar hobbit, leaning forward to study the garden as though it had changed since he’d been here last. (It hadn’t.) Statements such as these were why Bilbo often gave up in trying to be polite, not that he himself could hold back a chuckle at the wizard’s customary difficultness. “Yes, yes, and yes, all to the above Gandalf. Now what brings you here?”

“Why Bilbo, you make it sound as though I never come here to simply visit.” Gandalf said, tapping his pipe as he added more Old Toby, something the peculiar hobbit glanced towards with slight envy.

It took effort to get anything out of Gandalf these days, so Bilbo quelled the impatience that came with his kind’s curiosity, his thirst for knowledge. It still took effort to not gnash teeth together, however, and he supposed that was enough of an indicator. “Oh, yes, in the summer, when there’s an audience free from work to bother and plenty of children to stroke your ego when you sweep them off their feet with mere fireworks. But here? In the spring? I think not.” His relaxed posture slowly folded in, becoming closed off as he turned just so to narrow eyes at the wizard. “How many times will you make me ask? Haven’t I stroked your need for dramatics enough?”

“Be calm, my old friend,” Gandalf rumbled in amusement, though he couldn’t help but arch a gray brow at such words all the same. “I will have you know that my fireworks -” Bilbo clicking his tongue seemed to do the trick, as the wizard cut himself off with an inhale of pipeweed, before he finally sighed, looking put out and almost aggrieved. “Fine, Bilbo Baggins, if your impatience must be rewarded, then I will tell you: I am in need of a burglar.”

The peculiar would-be hobbit was laughing before the final syllable, as though the wizard had lost his damn mind. And he said so quite bluntly too, manners gone with the wind after facing such ridiculousness. “Gandalf, you will find no burglars here. None willing to leave the Shire, anyhow; not even the Tooks will be able to take you seriously. You best go to Bree for whatever foolish errand you need.”

“But it is not a mere burglar I need, Bilbo.” His tone had evened out some, and he seemed to puff out more smoke than he had mere minutes ago. “No, I need a _dragon_ burglar.”

This time the peculiar hobbit wasn’t laughing. Not a single chuckle escaped him as he abruptly stood, free hand curling into a fist even as the other pulled the pipe away from his mouth, to avoid crushing it with his teeth, which seemed to elongate right before the wizard’s eyes. Bilbo’s eyes seemed to pulse, a painful reminder that this body wasn’t entirely his own. This was all incredibly improper, even for him once he had discarded the notion of being polite to the wizard, but Bilbo didn’t - _couldn’t_ care, not past the panic thrumming in his blood with every beat of his black heart, with age-old resentment seeping in. _“_ You would dare, you old, senile fool _?”_ He snarled at the wizard, who blinked and reared his head back, as though in alarm. The wizard quickly composed himself, however, sharply clearing his throat as he saw a different type of smoke begin to arise from the hobbit’s hand, the one clutching his pipe. “It is out of no disrespect, _Bilbo_ _Baggins_.” The name was said as a gentle reminder, could even be considered almost apologetic.

It worked. The peculiar hobbit’s hostile stance relaxed almost immediately, but his heart kept pounding in his chest. “Why,” Bilbo started to say, but his burning throat kept him unable to say any more until he coughed into his hand and felt the faint burn of steam at his palm, its own reminder. “Why would you need a dragon burglar?” Gandalf’s eyes expressed sympathy, a kindness that the senile fool could never get rid of, even after all these years. His words, however, were heavy and blank, the cutting truth that Bilbo had been so curious about.

“Smaug. Or, as you would know him to be, Smaug the Golden.”

Bilbo would like to say that the name generated a sense of hate. Of clotting fear that would once again cloud his mind and send him into another panic. But it didn’t; rather, like with all names of his kin, of any dragon, it sent unbidden warmth through his centre, calmed and soothed him; it was blind adoration, affection, what all dragons felt towards their own kind.

It was blind and false, manufactured by their creator in an attempt to temper the fierce territorial nature dragons had. And still Bilbo couldn’t help but relish in the feeling, couldn’t squash the rising need to know of what happened - or, more likely, what will happen to his kin.

Dread warred with this giddy feeling, which was bubbling up in his chest, and it was far more logical, as anything Gandalf asked for had unbearable and, often times, fatal consequences. This had been proven well with the cases of Belladonna Took and, later, Bungo Baggins.

The hobbit - no, the _dragon_ forced himself to breathe slowly in order to halt the sudden racing of his untrustworthy heart, and he felt the pulsing of his eyes, which surely had made them more monstrous than any hobbit’s, subside. The tap-tap of his pipe’s end to his trousers helped calm him further, though his eyes bounced and landed everywhere but the wizard who sat ever so patiently on the bench, as though in preparation to run. Perhaps it was the wizard’s patience that finally led to Bilbo crushing his wits together in an effort to summon some semblance of courage. Or perhaps it was that dangerous need, a need for kin. Whatever it was, it allowed Bilbo to exhale deeply and for his body to almost slacken, were that possible standing up, and once again address Gandalf.

“Very well. Come inside, and I will hear your case.”

The wizard dutifully followed the dragon into Bag End, the most esteemed hobbit hole on this side of the Shire, folding over ever so slightly so he could walk through the wide circle door without hitting his head. In it could be seen that little had changed since Belladonna Took and Bungo Baggins had walked through its halls, let alone since the last time Gandalf had entered Bag End. The furniture hadn’t been moved in the slightest, nor had the rugs. There wasn’t a hint of damage that hadn’t already been there from its previous owners, and it looked homely. Well lived in.

Bilbo paid little attention to Gandalf’s study of his home, although he did know what the wizard was doing and thinking, instead murmuring to himself tasks that would need to be handled in the next couple of days as he wandered to his freshly stocked pantry to decide which tea he would drink for this particular conversation. As he set aside the bags of tea, he fumbled for a moment, cups rattling as he rolled back and forth on his feet, indecision striking him. Finally, he called to Gandalf, who still waited in the entrance of the house, “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“I’d prefer a glass of red wine.”

The dragon rolled his eyes, feeling a small smile come unbidden to his face, because of course Gandalf would speak such nonsense. Regardless, when Bilbo returned from the kitchen with a cup of tea, he had one for the wizard too. And this time he was much more embarrassed, his sheepish mood returning as he said, “I apologize for my earlier...outburst.” It was not easy for a dragon to admit fault, but after years of living with hobbits, he’d been taught to allow manners to override any sort of petty grudge he had. Besides, he honestly was ashamed, especially since he allowed panic to override any form of logic and had thus misunderstood Gandalf’s request in the worst possible way.

At least, he hoped it was a misunderstanding.

The wizard, on his part, nodded kindly, and merely replied, “Apology accepted, Mr. Baggins.” Though the dragon knew the wizard would - as he was not one to hold grudges for long so long as the offending party realized their mistakes - it was still a relief to be forgiven for an unrefined gut reaction. Bilbo proceeded to lead Gandalf to his loafering room, where they both took a seat, either on a traditional chair or on a stool. Gandalf himself laid his staff to rest against the pine table, even as he appeared to become more fatigued as he did so. “I’m in dire need of a dragon burglar, Bilbo Baggins,” He suddenly said, after a moment of silence, “for we need to travel beyond the Misty Mountains, to Erebor where Smaug the Golden rests with his hoard.”

Bilbo didn’t know what part about that explanation upsetted him more. “...You want me to fight Smaug? And who is this ‘we’ you speak of?” He knew he sounded hurt, too, wounded even, because the wizard should know what would happen if dragons came to blows with each other. Gandalf seemed to become more uncomfortable at the questions, and folded forward, puffing more frequently at the pipe. It almost made Bilbo want to fill up his own again and resume his own smoking. “No, Bilbo, I want you to not wake him. You would need to steal the Arkenstone right underneath him; if what you tell me about your kind is true, then it would be favorable to have a familiar scent around to not spark alarm and thus awaken him.” He did not need to answer the second question, for the mention of the Arkenstone clicked and connected with the previous mention of Erebor.

“You want me to travel with _dwarves?!”_ Bilbo said, incredulous. “And you want me to step into a place known for its gold sickness? Gandalf, your fantasies have gone too far. This is beyond ridiculous!”

The wizard seemed to have reach his limit of being ridiculed, his tone quickly shifting into a scold and the volume of his voice quickly rose. “You have become lazy and pessimistic, my old friend! Sitting here, lazing about every day in this hobbit hole is beneath you - has your grief and fear made you unable to realize that this is a necessary task?”

But Bilbo refused to be chastised or bullied into this. “No, I have become content. I have become realistic. War is behind me, Gandalf, for the first time since we intended it; am I to shed that for a flying fancy? For dwarves who will retrieve a paltry gem and simply cause their own destruction, be it with their own rage or their own greed? For dwarves who would undoubtedly strike me down should they discover what I am? Who I am? No, Gandalf, I will not abuse this body simply on your say so! Especially not after Belladonna and Bungo. ”

“You let your kind’s prejudice with dwarves blind you, Bilbo! Belladonna Baggins and Bungo Baggins gave their _lives_ for the Free Peoples of Middle Earth, and I am certain that they would be disappointed to know that their dearest friend hid away in comfort instead of facing the world head on.” Gandalf’s voice had accumulated to a shout, as it was prone to do when he was feeling particularly passionate about one topic or another.

But Bilbo Baggins had had enough.

“Take the tea with you, Gandalf the Grey, and have a good morning.” The dragon said coldly to the wizard, standing and walking to the door, finally opening it so it could swing out. The wizard, clearly disgruntled, left the tea on the table, and walked to the doorway, staff in hand. He paused right before it, much to the dragon’s displeasure, and said, much more calmly, “It simply pains me to see you like this, old friend. An adventure would do you good, to show you that not all is what it seems.”

His words only slightly appeased the cold fire burning at Bilbo’s sternum, devastating and fierce from the tactic of using his dear, deceased friends as a method to bully him. But it was enough that he stated once again, this time much more even, “Have a good morning, Gandalf. And if you mark my door with any magic, you and your dwarves won’t have to worry about Smaug; I’ll personally tear you to shreds and put you out of your misery.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you guys enjoyed it! Chapters will vary in length, but they will generally be around this length, if not longer.
> 
> Feel free to leave any feedback, it motivates me lol.


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